Chapter 28 : The Run
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — June 28, 2008, 7:45 PM]
The convoy formed up at dusk.
Eight bikes lined the TM lot in formation—four front, two rear, two floaters. The vans sat between them, engines idling, ready to carry enough firepower to arm a small militia.
I checked my bike for the third time. Tires, brakes, fuel, lights. Everything worked. Everything was ready.
Chibs appeared at my shoulder, helmet under his arm.
"Ye look wound tight, brother."
"Just focused."
"Aye." He studied me with those scarred eyes. "Stay close tonight. We watch each other's backs."
"Always."
Bobby's voice cut across the lot. "Mount up! We roll in five."
The ritual of departure: engines firing in sequence, headlights cutting the gathering dark, the rumble of eight Harleys drowning out thought. I took my position at rear with Chibs, watching the empty road behind us.
Clay's hand went up. The convoy rolled out.
---
[Highway 99, Northbound — 8:30 PM]
The highway stretched ahead, empty and dark.
No civilian traffic this late on the route we'd chosen. Just us and the road and the cargo worth more than most people made in a lifetime.
My eyes never stopped moving. Rearview mirrors, shoulder checks, scanning every headlight that appeared in the distance. The system's awareness felt sharper than usual—adrenaline or something else, I couldn't tell.
[COMBAT ASSESSMENT: ACTIVE] [SCANNING: NO IMMEDIATE THREATS]
The notification flickered at the edge of my vision. I pushed it aside, kept watching.
Chibs rode point of our rear guard, me trailing a length behind. We'd developed a rhythm over the past weeks—wordless communication through position and gesture. He checked left, I checked right. He accelerated, I matched. Professional.
Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. The Lodi turnoff approached.
No tails. No police. No federal vehicles.
Too clean. My instincts itched.
---
[Lodi Warehouse District — 9:15 PM]
The handoff location was a concrete box surrounded by chain-link.
Irish accents greeted us in the darkness—three men, professional demeanor, the kind of calm that came from doing this a hundred times before. The IRA connection that kept SAMCRO supplied and profitable.
Money changed hands. Crates were checked. The formality of criminals conducting business.
I stayed on the perimeter with Chibs, watching the approaches. Nothing moved in the dark except us.
"Clean," Chibs murmured. "Too clean for my liking."
"Yeah."
"Ye feel it too?"
"I feel something."
The transaction completed. The Irish departed first—two vehicles heading south, vanishing into the night. We loaded up and formed the return convoy.
Bobby's voice crackled over the radio. "Clean run. Good work, everyone. Let's go home."
[OPERATION COMPLETE: +200 XP] [REPUTATION: +150] [LEVEL UP: 6 → 7]
The notifications stacked at the edge of my awareness. I dismissed them without processing. The run was half the night. What came after was what mattered.
---
[Charming City Limits — 10:30 PM]
The convoy dispersed at the edge of town.
Some members headed for the clubhouse—celebration, drinks, the ritual release after successful operations. Others split toward home, toward families, toward beds that had been waiting.
Opie was among the latter.
I accelerated, caught up to his bike before he hit the first intersection.
"Riding your direction. Mind company?"
He glanced over, expression unreadable behind his helmet. Shrugged. "Suit yourself."
We rode together through Charming's quiet streets. Past Main Street Coffee where Sarah and I had our dates. Past the hardware store where my apartment sat dark and empty. Past all the normal places that normal people inhabited in their normal lives.
One bike length back, I watched everything. Every car parked on every street. Every shadow between streetlights. Every movement that might be nothing or might be everything.
Opie's house appeared ahead. Lights on inside. Another car in the driveway—Donna's.
My heart rate spiked.
This is it. If it's going to happen, it's tonight.
I parked behind Opie in the driveway. Killed the engine. Removed my helmet.
The night was quiet. Crickets. Distant traffic. Nothing that screamed danger.
Nothing except the weight in my chest that wouldn't let go.
"Drink before you go inside?"
Opie turned, studied me. Whatever he saw in my face, he didn't comment on.
"Sure."
He disappeared into the house, emerged a minute later with two bottles. Domestic beer, cold, nothing special.
We sat on the porch steps. Both watching the empty street.
For a moment—just a moment—I let myself feel the wind, the stillness, the simple pleasure of a beer after a long ride. Human moments that grounded impossible lives.
Then the feeling passed, and I went back to watching.
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